


(In)maculatus

by Chaotic_Smutty (Anna_Hopkins)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Bottom Harry, Caning, Desk Sex, Dom/sub, Dubcon starts in chapter 3, Dubious Consent, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Alternating, Power Dynamics, Restraints, Rimming, mild blood kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Hopkins/pseuds/Chaotic_Smutty
Summary: Harry Potter could not have said for sure just when he had developed an unhealthy interest in 'the cane'...
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 26
Kudos: 239
Collections: Chamber of Secrets' Winter Exchange (2019)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeva/gifts).



Harry Potter could not say for sure just when he had developed his unhealthy interest in 'the cane' -- that instrument of discipline, of obedience enforced by _pain._ Though the Dursleys had often talked about using it, and had indeed employed pain as discipline on Harry by other means in the past, they had never actually used a cane on him. Nor had Harry's Muggle schoolteachers, though one of them had demonstrated plenty of willingness to cane Harry's female classmates.

But Harry himself? No. The cane was always held at a metaphorical distance -- in view, in range, but not in use.

Perhaps it was inevitable that he would grow... enchanted with it, with the lean bit of flexible wood, with the sound it made when it struck, the whistle of it through the air -- observations made from a distance, through furtive eavesdropping by the door to the head teacher's office, when he could get away with returning late to Privet Drive (and sometimes even when he couldn't, and was soundly beaten and locked in his cupboard for lateness).

He imagined what it might be like, being caned: was it similar to Uncle Vernon's belt? Maybe, but it sounded sharper. Cleaner. More.

The years went on, and then there was Hogwarts, and the moment of bright-eyed, flushing anticipation in his first year when Professor McGonagall asked to borrow 'Wood', barely concealed by the time Quidditch Captain Wood emerged from the classroom. (Merlin, Harry had never been so embarrassed and disappointed in his life.)

_\--and Harry had never quite forgotten the moment of helpless excitement, the stomach-drop and diffuse heat that spread across his skin when he'd still believed he was about to be --_

Adolescence lent a new dimension to Harry's memory of that afternoon, and his subsequent imaginings of what might-have-been -- but he never dared to truly attempt a recreation of the memory in any of its available permutations. The intensity with which he wanted to be caned could sometimes disturb him; and it was not the kind of topic one shared with others, no matter who they were, was it? No.

So even when he found several canes laid on a rack in the Room of Requirement in his sixth year, pristine and free of dust as though waiting for him to choose one -- he bit his lip and looked away, forcing himself to focus on hiding the Half-Blood Prince's book instead.

By his seventh year, when Ron and Hermione joined him on the hunt for Horcruxes, Harry had decided he would take his obsession to his grave rather than tell anyone. It didn't mean he couldn't continue to fantasize, though, and every time it was his turn to wear the Locket he found himself drawn into fantasy ever more vividly, just as every time he took it off, his shame returned tenfold.

 _Not ashamed,_ a small voice in his head disagreed. _Afraid._

Huddled under the covers of his bed in the tent, Harry frowned. He wasn't scared. He _wanted._

Which brought Harry to some time later, in Malfoy Manor: more specifically, in a large chamber Bellatrix called her ‘playroom’ while she was dragging Harry over the threshold. Several minutes prior, he had wrangled his way into taking Hermione’s place with a few choice insults -- Ron wouldn’t have been able to handle listening to Hermione’s screams while locked too far away to help her.

(Harry, in comparison, wouldn’t scream; even under the Cruciatus.)

All manner of instruments of torture lined the walls -- were arranged upon the floor -- hung from the ceiling -- but, stumbling into the room with Bellatrix’s steering grip on his shoulder, Harry saw none of the horrors so readily presented to his vision. His gaze had caught on the far wall. 

On a sleek wooden rack, upon which rested seven thin, straight rods.

He gasped, going still where he stood. Bellatrix gave a grunt of irritation at his halt, then looked up to follow his gaze. When she spotted the canes, she giggled. “Ooh, is Prisoner possible-Potter _scared_ of the wee whipping sticks?” The witch adjusted her grip to his upper arm and dragged Harry over to the armchair set in the very middle of the room, tossing him carelessly on the floor while she took a seat. She sighed, toying with a strand of her wavy black hair. “If _only_ I could use them on you, boy… but they’re the Dark Lord’s personal set.” She rolled her eyes over-dramatically, reminding Harry faintly of the zombies in Dudley’s favorite horror films. “And my Lord forbids flogging without His supervision. Even when He isn’t using the canes himself, He does like to watch…”

Bellatrix looked off into the middle distance and sighed again, batting her eyelashes, with an uncomfortably fond expression on her face that should have tipped Harry off to what he would soon be seeing. He averted his eyes back to the rack of canes, swallowing thickly. “He’s… good at using them?” he asked quietly, fighting the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“The Dark Lord is a master of _all_ weapons He chooses to employ,” proclaimed the Dark witch formally, voice breathy. Her expression went dreamy as she continued, “but the canes _are_ His favorite. The sound of the slash, the snap against skin… He would never condescend to use His bare palm, but how I wish to see such a thing!”

A shiver raised goosebumps on Harry’s arms as his imagination supplied what Voldemort might look like in the midst of such an action. He bit his lip, staring unseeing at the canes from where he remained on the floor. So distracted, Harry did not truly hear the rest of what Bellatrix said as she waxed poetic over Voldemort’s expertise with a wide variety of flogging instruments, fanning herself as she draped over the side of the chair -- the topic had distracted her, too -- but he did notice the moment she went silent, and came out of his reverie in time to hear a low, familiar voice from the doorway.

He turned to look.

Then he forgot himself entirely -- and went to his knees just as Bellatrix did.

Voldemort had received a report of new prisoners taken to Malfoy Manor some time earlier in the day, but then, nothing further, which was odd. After three hours, curiosity won out; he rose from his desk in one of many offices, and ran a hand through his hair, perturbed, making his way to the apparition point in the wards. Bella had had ample time to interrogate at least one of the prisoners that had been reported; what was taking so long?

He Apparated silently into a side entrance of Malfoy Manor, and made his way to Bella’s torture chamber of choice, wondering if she had taken up any new floorspace with equipment as she was wont to do. (It was dreadfully unsubtle for a Slytherin, but then, there _had_ been Azkaban.) Beyond the doors, the Dark Lord found two figures prostrating before him; one was Bellatrix, and the other, he assumed on first glance, was a Death Eater grunt. “Bella,” he demanded shortly, “where is the prisoner?” Had she perhaps forgotten, and selected one of the lesser ranks to play with --?

“I’m right here, sir,” said the second figure. His muffled voice was faintly familiar to Voldemort, and a little… breathless. He squinted at the man. Who was that?

“I was telling him of your expertise with the canes, my Lord,” Bella rushed pink-cheeked to explain, just as breathless. “And whips and switches -- the most delightful interrogation last week --”

“Enough, Bella,” he cut her off. “Have you gathered any information relevant to the war?” A glance at the prisoner suggested some spells had already been used, before she was driven to distraction; a Stinging Hex? How bland.

Bellatrix began to shake her head, appropriately chastised for her delay, but her spoken response was interrupted by the prisoner: “I have information,” he promised urgently. “I’ll tell you everything, just -- on one condition--”

“What condition,” asked Voldemort flatly, still puzzling over the man’s identity. The voice sounded even more familiar under stress, but he still could not place it.

“Erm--” the prisoner hesitated, visibly shivering.

Hmm.

“...Raise your head, boy,” the Dark Lord ordered.

The prisoner did as he was told, and Voldemort then knew why he had seemed familiar. “Harry Potter,” he hissed, surprised, then rounded on an equally shocked Bellatrix: “Bella, you did not _inform me_ that Potter had been captured?” His hand twitched toward his wand in the reflexive urge to Cruciate the witch, but he reined in the impulse, mindful of the actual subject of importance -- who was still kneeling, for his part. (Remarkably well-behaved, for a Gryffindor prisoner.)

He dismissed Bella for the moment. “Even were I to believe you had information, Potter,” the Dark Lord would grant that it was likely, “what exactly is the price you wish to exact? Protection for your loved ones? Secret knowledge of the Dark Arts you inexplicably desire to gain? A _vow?”_

Potter shook his head, eyes wide. (Or at least, as wide as they could be with his swollen face.) “N-no,” he answered, “none of that. Erm. Should’ve thought of it,” the boy muttered under his breath. Then, “No, but I want, um--”

The Dark Lord rolled his eyes. “Speak clearly, or I will not bother listening.” He was already doing Potter a great favor in resisting the petty impulse to burn him alive.

“Iwantyoutocaneme -- erm, if you wouldn’t mind using the cane on me, please?” Gone crimson, Potter averted his gaze. “I’ll tell you everything I know, Dumbles told me a lot--”

_What._

“You are offering me all of your knowledge,” Voldemort repeated, disbelieving, “in exchange for -- a flogging with one of my canes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My giftee for the Winter Exchange requested: Top!Voldemort, Dubcon, Power dynamics, D/s with caning. Oh, and non-snakey Voldemort.
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> There's gonna be several chapters, I think.


	2. Chapter 2

_"You are offering me all of your knowledge," Voldemort repeated, disbelieving, "in exchange for - a flogging with one of my canes?"_

Potter nodded emphatically, raising himself to a sitting position from his knees. He dug his fingers into the tops of his thighs. “Yes - yes, please, I’d really like it--”

“...Very well, then,” Voldemort agreed. For what else was there to say? Their agreement was already entirely to his benefit, enough that he wondered what Potter was supposed to gain from it. Although - “You will bathe first, however. And Bella,” a pointed glance in the witch’s direction, “attend to the Stinging Hexes on his face.”  _ First-year spells, really,  _ he muttered under his breath.

He continued to ponder the question of why Potter had made this request - if he was missing some facet of the agreement - from the doorway of his personal bathroom, watching Potter bathing himself in the tub. The boy occasionally glanced at him, flushed, and looked away; but he did not complain over being monitored, and seemed to understand that it was a mere measure against escape attempts.

Instead, Voldemort became privy to the surprising information that Potter had used wizarding cosmetics but once, in Hogwarts’ prefects’ bathroom, and did not even know what the array of products beside the tub all  _ did _ . It was an interesting enough turn of events that the Dark Lord elected to explain them; if the boy even noticed that the set was Voldemort’s scent, he did not comment on it.

Some time later, Potter was combing out his hair inexpertly before the bathroom’s large mirror. “I’m cleaner than I’ve been in months,” he remarked, blinking at his reflection. “Whoa - is my hair really this long?”

Since when was the Boy-Who-Lived this pink-mouthed, guileless waif? Honestly, the Dark Lord had had enough. He crossed the room, ignoring the boy’s surprised flinch, and plucked the comb from Potter’s fingers; seated upon a hastily-conjured stool, he set to work with a scoff. “Have you never used conditioner, Potter? Really, your family line isn’t  _ actually _ known for having messy hair-”

Soon, Potter’s hair hung smooth and shiny nearly to his shoulders, which were tense from the effort of holding still under Voldemort’s ministrations. One stray lock fell right in the middle of the boy’s forehead; the Dark Lord snorted, attempting to comb it in with the rest, and watching how it bounced right back. “How funny,” he observed, “my hair does the same thing…”

“It’s nice,” Potter agreed, then blushed. “Erm - I mean - it suits you,” he fidgeted in his seat, “makes sense you’ve always styled it that way, ‘least in the diary and the Pensieve memories Dumbledore showed me last year.”

Voldemort eyed Potter indirectly through a fogged-up mirror, mentally noting that as a good starting point for the questioning he would be doing later. The silence seemed to make Potter nervous; eventually, as though he could not keep it in, he blurted, “So you’re not wearing a glamour? To look like that?”

Ah, that was right. He had neglected to treat this as a public appearance, expecting the prisoners to be absent or dead; there had been no need to don his serpentine guise. “No,” Voldemort answered after a moment’s thought, “it is the other face that is the glamour.”

“Oh,” Potter blinked. He started to say something else, but then closed his mouth again, eyes casting about the room. Whatever was on the tip of his tongue was obviously responsible for the renewed flush in his cheeks.

“Speak your mind, Potter,” the Dark Lord sighed.

“...Could you do my hair more like yours? And - erm - you could call me Harry if you wanted..? Only it’s just Malfoy who calls me by my last name, and he’s a berk-”

“Well,  _ Harry _ ,” said Voldemort with slight emphasis on the name, “I could, if you tell me just what you meant by a diary…”

(He had some sneaking suspicions.)

By the time he was peering down at an effortlessly-replicated hairstyle, twenty minutes later, Voldemort had come to two conclusions: one, that Harry had clearly never been looked after before, and two, that while Abraxas had been a trustworthy holder of his Horcrux, his son was not. In fact: were it not for his more immediately scheduled caning of Harry Potter, he would already be summoning Lucius to be birched within an inch of his life, and possibly flayed several times, for his error.

(Harry’s own culpability in the destruction of the Horcrux was remarkably low in comparison. Still, it was even more reason to anticipate the boy’s punishment.)

He rose from the stool and moved to the second door, averting his eyes from Harry’s nude body. “We will employ the house-elves in finding suitable clean clothing,” said Voldemort, changing the subject. A snap of his fingers summoned two of the creatures. “Retrieve the trunk labelled ‘Abraxas’ Cotton Bedlinens’ from the attic,” he ordered, and they popped away.

“Abraxas Malfoy, my right-hand man in the early years,” Voldemort elaborated almost wistfully as he led Harry into the bedchamber that adjoined the bathroom. He sighed. “Abraxas was far preferable to his son, but even he was spoiled -- the man owned no cotton linens.”

“Then the trunk..?” Harry wondered, eyeing it where it had been deposited by the bed.

“My school robes,” Voldemort answered simply. He was already sifting through the carefully-folded garments in the trunk, retrieving shirt, trousers, necktie, outer robe, socks, sock garters --

“...Even the underwear?” asked Harry in a small voice that told of a renewed blush over his features.  _ Shy boy _ , Voldemort thought with some amusement; he spared him only a glance before replying,

“We typically did not wear any, at the time.”

He eyed the folded briefs stacked in one corner of the trunk, and weighed the merits and disadvantages of the lie. Ultimately, it was more appealing to present the option: “Though I do have some in here, if you prefer.”

The click of Harry’s throat as he swallowed was music to Voldemort’s ears. “Erm,” he answered, ever eloquent.

“It is not as though it matters,” the Dark Lord pointed out, intentionally lightly. “After all, you will be bared before the cane.”

To his private delight, Harry bit down on a whimper at the reminder of why he was here -- as though he could have forgotten -- and shifted on the bed. “Oh,” he replied in a faint voice. “Okay.”

“...Have you never been caned, Harry?” Voldemort wondered, floating the pile of clothes he had selected over to Harry without turning around. (A pair of briefs had been included, after all.) He closed the trunk once he had selected a pair of shoes, absently reactivating their self-sizing function, and went to stand by the window, looking out over the courtyard through the glass. “Surely it is not so unusual a punishment? Though perhaps it has fallen out of favor with Muggles in recent years…”

Behind him, he knew, Harry was dressing himself in the clothes he had been provided. Would he struggle, the Dark Lord wondered, with the sock garters, and ask for help in putting them on?

The way Harry had flinched, earlier, at being touched -- even after he'd admitted it was once painful, and he didn't know why it wasn't now -- had suggested he was rarely physically close with anyone. Even such a  _ pedestrian  _ intimacy with Harry as combing his hair -- "only went to the barber once, 'far as I know," he'd said earlier, hadn't he?

Then, comparatively, he might term his actions with Harry almost... _ indecent, _ in comparison. Taking liberties with him that had rarely (even never) been taken. Not to mention caning him --

"They never used it on me," the boy was confessing, sheepish. "My aunt and uncle preferred the belt at home, or just left me in my cupboard."

He would unpack the latter part of that statement later. "You ask me for the cane without knowing its bite," Voldemort observed, feeling somewhat flattered.

"I've always wanted it," Harry rushed to reassure, "there was just never a reason for them to use it on me, I guess--"

"If you are finished dressing, Harry," Voldemort interrupted his rambling elaboration, "my office is this way." He glanced at the boy to find him outfitted relatively neatly, slipping his feet into the shoes and blinking down at them as they changed sizes to fit. His tie was looser about his neck than it was meant to be worn, and his shirt was slightly untucked, but then, it would be taking more liberties than Voldemort dared, as yet, if he corrected them, wouldn't it?

He turned away, and opened the door to his office. "Through here." His words brooked no argument, though none was forthcoming; the Dark Lord simply could not bear to ponder possibilities this close to his bed, not after hearing this much about the boy's virginal buttocks already. Indeed, he could not even look directly at Harry until they had both crossed the threshold into the office, door closing and locking behind him; otherwise, he suspected all his efforts of restraint thus far would have been wasted.

"To the desk now, Harry," Voldemort murmured. "Bend over it, on your elbows, and wait."


	3. Chapter 3

This was far from the first time Lord Voldemort had caned anyone over a desk; nor was it the first time he had used this desk in particular. But it  _ was  _ the first time he could recall ever setting this particular scene.

He basked in the anticipatory pleasure that was the sight of Harry in place, wearing  _ his  _ clothes,  _ his  _ hairstyle, bent over  _ his  _ desk. The Slytherin colors on his borrowed robes gave Harry the air of a misbehaving student -- which would make Voldemort the...  _ disciplinarian professor, _ Harry's probable Head-of-House, would it not?

The prospect was... not unappealing. Nor was the way Harry held himself tense over the desk, as though expecting the first blow at any moment. And here Lord Voldemort had not even reached for a cane!

In fact, they had time and time before the cane would come into play: Harry had yet to expose his bottom to receive the strikes he was due. Voldemort realized this was because he had not told him to -- the boy was waiting for an order. But...

To order Harry bare himself, or to do so  _ for _ him? It would be far too easy to simply step closer, hook his fingers under the loose waistband, and tug it down...

He swallowed. "You may present your rear, Harry," said Voldemort in a low voice, resisting temptation.

Harry did not move.

"I said," Voldemort glared, not that the boy could see,  _ "present your rear, _ Harry."

"But you said to keep my elbows on the desk, sir," Harry protested quietly, fidgeting in place.

Oh, so he was playing that game, was he? "Very well," said Voldemort primly, "then you are to remain as you are."

And he stepped closer, knuckles brushing up the swell of one round cheek as his thumbs hooked beneath the waistband of Harry's trousers and dropped them swiftly down to his ankles, leaving just his slightly faded briefs on underneath.

The boy's breath hitched; a visible shudder ran down his spine, terminating in a slight wobble of his raised rump, but he spoke not a word. The removal of this outermost layer of clothing brought with it a faint but distinctive whiff of arousal, which would permeate the room if only the Dark Lord chose to pull down those briefs as well.

"Will you remove them, Harry," he asked, bending down to speak in Harry's ear, "or will I?"

"M-may I?" the boy breathed. Belatedly, he added, "Sir?"

The Dark Lord stood back up, eyes tracing down the curvature of Harry's back, considering. He had not stepped back from the close proximity established moments before -- indeed, it would be no challenge at all to cant his hips forward and rub against the boy, if that were his intention.

But that was not the purity Voldemort was here to defile, yet. He admired for a moment longer the tremble in Harry's thighs, and the sight of his slightly-too-tight briefs digging into soft flesh at the hems, before one long fingertip dragged the fabric down over one pale buttock, and further, until gravity brought it the rest of the way to Harry's ankles.

Harry bit his lip, going tense all over, at the exposure of his arse to the air.  _ Bared before the cane, _ just as Voldemort had promised. His fingers dug into the smooth cold wood of the desk, which had warmed considerably against his feverish skin in the past few minutes; he felt the strain of holding still in his shoulders and his lower back, and the way his face was already sticking, sweaty, to the wood varnish, breath fogging against the desktop on every exhale.

Voldemort had barely laid a finger on him so far, yet in the instant of contact, all of Harry's focus had narrowed to the touch, and he knew he had not been able to contain his voice completely by the thread of satisfaction in the Dark Lord's voice afterward.

Then the heat of a broad palm came to rest on his lower back, and Harry couldn't help the ragged gasp that came out of him in response -- his thoughts turned briefly to part of Bellatrix's monologue from earlier, a tidbit he'd remembered despite barely hearing anything else she'd said.

_ "The Dark Lord would never condescend to using his bare hand, of course... but oh, how I wish he would!" _

He was here to be caned, but for just a moment, forcing himself not to arch into the touch as the hand pulled away, Harry thought he wouldn't mind a bright red handprint instead of the lines of a lashing.

From behind him, Voldemort gave a considering hum, and snapped his fingers. "Elf," Harry heard the older wizard snap, "retrieve my canes from the gallery.”

_ Oh Merlin, _ Harry shuddered again, feeling renewed heat suffuse his skin,  _ it's time. _

The house-elf returned shortly after its departure with the canes, its wide, fearful eyes glancing between Voldemort and the boy. It looked as though it would have squeaked something, were it not for Lucius' standing order that all house-elves in the Manor keep their mouths firmly shut in the Dark Lord's presence. (Indeed, he had previously caned Lucius in the Manor's dining room for the creatures being too noisy. What fun that had been...)

"That is all," Voldemort murmured, waving the elf off as he eyed up the selection of canes from his rack, glancing back at Harry occasionally while he deliberated over his choice.

There were several canes of different materials at hand, including several under a variety of enchantments. The Dark Lord's favorite was the one whose welts he could magically renew for up to a week after the original punishment -- but then, this  _ was _ Harry's... first time.

He glanced back at the pristine, unblemished skin, so  _ ready _ for discipline, and reached for the only mundane instrument on the rack, that Harry might truly  _ savor _ this first experience.

"So, Harry," Voldemort spoke up conversationally, tapping the cane lightly against his palm as he moved to stand in optimal range, "how many strikes do you think you deserve?"

The boy tensed, swallowing down a small noise. "...Twenty, sir?"

"Wrong." The Dark Lord raised the cane so its slender striking end slid up the inside of Harry's thigh, teasing where it met his buttock. Harry quivered and gasped, and the shift in his posture suggested he was already curling his toes in his shoes.

"The answer is, 'as many as Lord Voldemort pleases'."

"O-oh." The boy's fingers curled against the wood of the desk, shoulders gone tense. From the vantage point granted by his height, Voldemort could see the flush that blossomed over Harry's cheeks, and the back of his neck, disappearing under his shirt. He considered, momentarily, placing a mirror in Harry's field of vision, so he might see himself -- but no. Next time.

(After all, Harry had never asked to be set free.)

"So," Voldemort traced a line across Harry's buttocks with the end of his cane, "how many strikes do you deserve, Harry?"

"A-as many as Lord Voldemort pleases," the boy recited, punctuating his answer with a low, breathy moan.

"I would have you keep count," the Dark Lord mused, "but then, you would soon be far too distracted to remember where you left off."

A pause.

"One."

And a flick of his wrist whipped the cane straight along the line he had traced moments before, with a resounding 'crack' of wood against skin that Voldemort truly relished. It took a half-second for the pain to register, he observed; when it did, he was rewarded with a sharp inhale, and a full-body tremor that left Harry supporting his weight mostly on his arms.

"Two."

Crack. A choked-off noise from Harry, his knees shaking with the effort of standing.

"Three."

Crack. A ragged gasp, now, and the audible squeak of sweaty palms sliding over the desktop.

The Dark Lord felt heat pooling low in his stomach already.

"Four."

Crack. Harry's posture slumped, head turning to press his forehead into the desk. Oh, that was  _ lovely. _

"...Five." Crack. This time, he struck lower, against the bottom of the round buttock, dangerously close to the boy's vulnerable places. The moan Harry couldn't restrain was muffled against the wood.

"Ssix." A high strike, now, for symmetry, whistling through the air -- and to watch Harry's back arch up, his head raising from the desk as he hunched lower on his elbows to compensate. Sweat beaded up at his hairline, droplets sliding down the back of his neck and at his temples, and the careful styling Voldemort had made of the boy's hair was now dishevelled, damp and dark. Were he capable of regret, Voldemort might have regretted giving Harry anything to wear at all. He let the heat build a moment, watching Harry breathe heavily, struggling to brace himself against the next strike.

Was it as the boy had imagined, he wondered? Had Harry anticipated the precise nature of his torment, over the years he had claimed to await it? Was he  _ satisfied? _

(Because Voldemort was not.)

_ "Sseven." _ Crack. "Eight." Another, in short succession.

At last, Harry's knees gave out, and he crumpled against the desk, letting out the most wrecked sound yet.

Voldemort paused to regard him again, smirking, fully aware of the erection tenting his black robes. "Do you want this to sstop, Harry?" he breathed, running his thumb and index finger over the length of the cane. Ah, so he had not drawn blood after all; the third welt had seemed a bit redder than the others, he'd thought, but no. "Discipline is meant to end with an apology." He leaned in close to examine the eight nearly-parallel lines, spaced several fingers' breadth apart, which marred the reddening flesh in the most satisfying of ways. "You do not sseem to repent."

Another strike, closely overlapping the very first he had made -- lighter, this time, only renewing the existing pain. "Nine."

Silence. Harry tried and failed to resume the original position he had been ordered to hold; his legs seemed to have gone jellied beneath him. Ultimately, he lay one side of his face against the desktop once more, huffing heated breaths against its glossy surface, and with visible effort raised his well-striped arse on unsteady legs.

Splendid.

"Ten. Eleven. Twelve." Three strikes in succession, parallel lines in the gaps between the earlier set -- and a fair bit harder, this time, for sharper pain. Harry's eyes flew wide, brimming with unshed tears: an effect not at all spoiled by the boy's dilated pupils, or the drool starting to amass where his open mouth gasped against the wood.

"Are you ssorry, Harry?" Voldemort whispered.

Harry closed his eyes.

"Thirteen."

The cane licked a long stripe diagonally up and across Harry's rear, intersecting all twelve of the previous strikes and drawing blood at every one. A quiet gasp, and the Dark Lord saw the first tears streaking down the boy's visible cheek, just before he let out a sob. "I'm s-sorry," Harry cried. "Please, I'm  _ sorry--" _

Sweet Salazar.

Voldemort set his cane on top of the rack, where he would later be able to admire the bloodstains, and drew closer, resting one hand on the table so that he loomed close enough over Harry to fell the boy's body heat. "Why, Harry," he purred against his ear, "just what are you sorry _ for?" _ He traced a line down Harry's spine with one fingertip, leaving off just above the start of exposed, feverish skin.

A muffled sob. "H-Horcruxes," came the answer, "I -- we -- the diary, the l-locket," a shuddering breath, "he -- the ring--"

Voldemort froze, taken out of the moment. That really  _ was  _ something to be sorry for. "You've destroyed those, too?" he asked quietly, restraining the urge to turn Harry over and tear the knowledge from his mind with Legilimency.

After all, the diary was one matter, largely resolved; but to think that Dumbledore had known about the others, and most likely directed Harry to continue finding and destroying them...

Harry trembled beneath him, resting his weight heavily on the desk -- he had bitten his lip rather than cry aloud any further, but the glittering streaks of fresh tears had begun to puddle on the polished wood. "I'm sorry," he whispered again.

_ I could  _ flay _ Potter for this, _ part of Voldemort snarled; that part, he quickly compartmentalized away, for now. Another part, which had remained interested in the proceedings even with the revealed threat, took its place, and the Dark Lord slid his fingers along the bottom hem of Harry's rucked-up shirt, toying with the fabric while he stood back to leer down at the boy once more. "I suppose you'll have to make it up to me, then."

"H-How," Harry gasped, but was interrupted by the sudden wrapping of strong arms around his middle, lifting him back up into the original position he'd taken on the desk. Voldemort cast a variety of Sticking Charm to anchor his forearms to the desk, and if Harry had been able to look in his direction, he would have seen a cruel and anticipatory grin stretching across his face.

"Spread your legs a bit further now," the Dark Lord murmured, nudging Harry's ankle with his foot. "Step out of your trousers."

With the practiced air of one who has done so innumerable times, Voldemort cast a mild Cleaning Charm, and knelt down behind Harry to tongue at the bloody red lines crisscrossing his supple buttocks. Harry jolted, but hands grasped his thighs, holding him in place.

The welts raised against the expanse of pale skin really did make a lovely contrast, thought the Dark Lord as he admired his handiwork. He traced each line in the order it had been placed, digging his teeth in just hard enough to make marks of similar color at intervals; all the while, Harry's breathing stuttered, and he flinched away involuntarily from the touch. The motion only meant that the wounds at intersecting lines welled up with more droplets of sweet, metallic blood, which Voldemort savored as he would later savor the boy's tears gathered upon his desk.

But he did not ultimately tease for long. Though he could not see it from his current position, Voldemort vividly imagined the wide-eyed look of shock accompanying Harry's sharp inhale as he moved his attentions elsewhere, licking up the crevice of his arse to tongue at the tight ring of muscle hidden there. The boy's throaty moans rose higher and higher as he laved over his hole: prodding, pressing in, all the while squeezing the reddened, sore buttocks in his hands.

"Wa-ait, ah," Harry was begging, "please--"

Lord Voldemort did not wait. He worked Harry open with his tongue, savoring the way his pleas gave way to renewed sobs -- these of much more pleasure than pain. "Feels," Harry gasped, "feels good, why--?"

Pulling back, the Dark Lord huffed a laugh against flushed skin, spreading Harry open with his thumbs. "Why?" he asked, scraping his teeth more sharply against the marks to hear Harry moan again. "For my satisfaction, of course."

Then, keeping in mind his plans for Harry next, he Summoned a bottle of oil from a desk drawer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter next. ♥


End file.
